Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“Indeed?” I exclaimed, with surprise. “But I thought you hated him!”

“I do,” she replied serenely, “but I forgive him, from my heart, for being what he cannot help — the most detestable man in England.” She rose, and held out her hand. “I must leave you now. There is a quantity of packing, and the servants to be directed. I owe you a debt I shall be a lifetime repaying.”

Her expression of gratitude and faith was so sincere as to smite my traitorous heart. If forgiveness was her chosen art, I hoped she might spare a little of it for me, when all was known.

I unclasped the gold crucifix, and pressed it into her palm. “Take this, Sophia. It belongs to your Monsignor.”

She looked at it curiously. “But how did you come by it, Jane?”

“I found it... among the ruins of Netley Abbey once, when I had gone there to paint.”

I grasped her hand, and walked with her to the door — and saw her phaeton safely turned towards Samuel Street.

Then I sat at the writing desk, chose a sheet of fine paper and a well-mended pen, and set down the substance of Mrs. Challoner’s conversation. It required but a few moments. When I had done, I raised my head and listened. The house was quiet: Martha, her ankle on the mend, had retired to her bedchamber; Mary was bathing her daughter in the kitchen, under the benevolent eye of Phebe. My mother might already be snoring over her needlework, though it was but six o’clock.

I donned my pelisse, and went in search of Lord Harold.

5 November 1808, cont.

“Good evening to ye, Miss Austen,” Fortescue the publican said truculently when I appeared at the Dolphin. “Are ye wanting his lordship?”

“Indeed I am — but I know him to be much involved today, and should not presume to trouble him. Would you be so good as to convey this note on my behalf? The communication it contains is of an urgent nature.”

The publican eyed my missive apprehensively.

“You’ll have heard the news of the inquest?”

“I was present throughout, as was my brother, Captain Frank Austen. I know that you have long held the Captain in esteem, Mr. Fortescue, and you should be happy to learn that my brother regards Lord Harold as worthy of the highest confidence.”

Fortescue’s pale blue eyes shifted uneasily. “Folk do be saying as how that valet — the foreigner — is guilty of murder.”

“Or perhaps of nothing worse than fleeing in fear of his life. Will you carry my letter to his lordship?”

The publican studied my countenance, and the doubt lifted from his own. “His lordship’s just ordered dinner, ma’am. If you care to wait, I shall enquire whether he is receiving visitors.”

I certainly cared to wait, and retired to the side parlour in which I had last seen Flora Bastable. It was lit this evening by a quartet of candles in pewter sconces; the early November dark had already fallen. Townsfolk hurried home along the chill pavings beyond the window, with their collars buttoned high and paper parcels tucked under their arms. I thought of the long, dreary winter — of soldiers slogging through mud and gore on the Peninsula, of Frank buffeted by brutal seas; of George and Edward shivering in the dormitories of Winchester College. A greater sense of oppression than I had lately known settled upon my soul, as though all the light in life was bound for London in the baggage-coach of Sophia Challoner.

“Pray to follow me, miss,” said Fortescue from the door.

He led me up two flights of the broad front stairs; Lord Harold should never be placed directly above the public rooms, where the noise and odour must penetrate the bedchamber. The Rogue had been situated instead at the rear of the edifice, well removed from the clatter of the stable yard, in a comfortable suite that encompassed a private parlour. This door Fortescue threw open with a flourish, and announced, “Miss Austen, m’lord!”

It was a simple space, quite out of keeping with what I imagined to be his lordship’s usual style: a round deal table; four chairs; a dresser with a few serving pieces upon it; a poker and tongs propped near the hearth. A pug dog, done in Staffordshire, sat upon the mantel — Mrs. Hodgkin’s bit of whimsy, I conjectured. Lord Harold was established at the table, with a quantity of papers spread out before him. He was working in his shirtsleeves, his coat discarded upon a chair. Left to his own devices, without a valet, he must be inclined to the informal. A pair of spectacles perched on his nose, bringing age and wisdom of a sudden to his visage.

“ Jane . Have you dined?”

“Thank you, sir — I have.”

“A little wine, perhaps? Claret — Madeira—”

“Port, this evening,” I said thoughtfully.

Lord Harold smiled. “A bottle of your best Port, Fortescue, and two glasses.”

“Very good, sir,” the publican replied with greater cordiality than before, and closed the door behind him. I began to remove my bonnet, acutely conscious — as I had been only once before, in his lordship’s carriage — of the intimacy that surrounds a man and woman confined in a small space.

“Is your mother aware that you visit strange gentlemen in their rooms?” his lordship demanded abruptly.

“As Mr. Fortescue apprehends that much, we may presume the fact will circulate through the town by the morrow.”

“Then I commend you for bravery.”

“Have you discovered Orlando?”

“—No, though I searched every road out of this wretched place,” he answered bitterly. “I have been in the saddle nearly two hours, Jane, and intend to remount as soon as I have dined; but I have little hope of finding him. He has gone to ground somewhere, like a wounded fox.”

“Or to sea, perhaps?”

He removed the spectacles and stared at me.

“That is how I should flee Southampton, my lord. The sea, after all, betrays no footprint of man or beast.”

At that moment, Fortescue reappeared at his lordship’s door, burdened with a tray. A weary figure stood behind him, in a greatcoat splashed with mud.

“Frank!” I cried. “Returned from Portsmouth, and not a moment too soon!”

“Found the Captain in the stable yard, I did,”

Fortescue explained, “and understood straightaway that it’s his sister he’ll be wanting. I’ve brought extra rations for the Captain, and no need to offer thanks.”

Lord Harold rose, and clapped my brother on the shoulder. “Come in by the fire, man — you’re perishing of cold.”

“I encountered rain seven miles from Portsmouth, and a long, wet road of it we made,”

Frank said, and shook his sopping hat over the hearth. “However, a bit of weather does not signify. I delivered your message to the Admiralty telegraph, my lord — and waited only for a reply. Here it is.” He extended a letter sealed with wax. “I have no notion of the contents.”

Lord Harold broke it open immediately, and surveyed the close-written lines.

“Here’s rabbit stew,” Fortescue continued, “a bit of baked fish; warm bread; a wedge of cheese; and a quantity of peas. And the London papers, what’s fresh off the mail! And the Port, for the lady!”

“Well done, Fortescue,” his lordship murmured.

“Any friend of the Austens cannot ask for too much, and that’s a fact.” He beamed at Frank, glared severely at his lordship, and backed his way out of the room with his empty tray dangling.

“My status has received an elevation,” Lord Harold observed drily. “I forgot that Southampton is your home, and not a mere way-station, as it so often proves for me. You have been acquainted with Fortescue for some time, I collect?”